in the winter monthsshe would not push him awaywhen he curled his body around hers:his warmth was comforting

but when the seasons warmedshe grew too hot and banished his armsfrom around her delicate frameand on those nights he would go outto a nightspot he liked for itssmoke and booze and damp heat

sometimes he'd seek out the managerwho would give him a key andlet him unlock the fauxmahoganny piano coverbeneath which a row of hard whitesoldiers awaited the command of hisstodgy white finger tips

he would play, on those nights,melancholy tunes of warmth and clarityand women would come to listen - sometimes two or three at a time -gathering around the piano,not talking to him, but watching intentlyor just standing nearbyacting nonchalant and disinterestedbut carried by the music to his strangesad world

his fingers swept up and down thosekeys as was his childhood fashion,playing out his heart and watchingthe women whose insouciant attentiongave him such silent gratification

when the nights were overand the mornings were well wornhe would taxi home, a whiff ofwhiskey or brandy on his breathand there she lay, in their bedbeautiful and still

but she lay awake behind closed eyes,woken always by the slam of a cab doorand the drunken fumblings of her husband
as heclimbed into the cold half of the bedreeking of alcohol and perfume

she knew what he did and it hurt,all those other women who looked at
himwith the adulation she could no longerbring herself to feel

she had followed him out one nightand watched as a woman chatted to himsaw how he had lit her cigarettesmiledand kissed her hand;always the charmer

so she had sought to make him jealous,found herself going out more and morewearing less and lessuntil she drew the indiscriminate eyes
ofevery male she passed,provoking whistles from construction
workersand straightening of ties amongst businessmen

she caught herself in the reflection
ofa tall glass skyscraperand stood transfixed by her transformationa tall hourglass of a womanin high heels, high cheekbones, high
style,wrapped in a dress cut from the dark
clothof raw sexuality

and from the lobby of that buildingher husband watched her as he waited
foran appointment with a blonde propertymanager with a styx accent but a polisheddemeanour and heels higher and rounder than those of his wife

she had a glint in her eye when they
metand he knew how to play it, suave and
controlledthe skills of his youth returning to
him,his seduction clean and smoothbuttons poppingelastic stretchingmoans unvoiced. . .

afterwards they had conducted businesswith burnt lust giving way to ironicprofessionalism and innoccuous banter;and he left her office and walkedstraight to the nightspot with the pianoto whose lid he now had his own key

he listened to the whispers of those
girlswho gathered around him and felt suddenlyas if he had destroyed something beautiful;and from the corner of his eye he sawher push through the crowd, dressed
plainlyin jeans and a black t-shirt that he
hadalways liked her in

and when she looked at him, saw the guiltin his eyes, she knew - as every woman
knows -and sitting there at the piano he confessedand they both had tears in their eyes,held each other while a crowd of men
and womengathered around their embrace and looked
onas they kissed each other for the first
time in weeks

and she asked why, to which he replied:you pushed me away

and she said she was just hot in thisgoddamned summer heat

he held her gaze for a while and looked
downat the keys of his piano

and after a while, his fingers found
theirway to those musical warriors again

and she reached out and played two octaves
above,the simple, wistful duet they had once
shared as young lovers